


Blur

by Lise



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen, Hallucinations, Hurt Neal, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-19
Updated: 2012-03-19
Packaged: 2017-11-04 17:16:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/396254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lise/pseuds/Lise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>St. George paused in his dragon-slaying and turned his head to look at Neal. “Well,” he said, “You’ve really stepped in it this time.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blur

Rarely, Neal thought, had an operation gone quite so spectacularly wrong. He hadn’t expected them to shoot. (He never did.)

Or at least had expected to have more time to get farther once the jig was well and truly up.

Things never worked out the way you wanted them to, Neal mused philosophically, blinking up at a very blue sky and somewhat relieved that what was probably shock was shielding him from feeling where two bullets had most definitely punched through his torso.

Neal was enjoying the break, at least for now. It’d catch up to him in a minute, and then he would have to be worried.

It was a pity. Peter was going to have to do an awful lot of paperwork. Answer some stupid questions. There would probably be an inquiry. What a bother.

The blood was warm and faintly sticky on his hands. . It was a pity about the suit, too, Neal thought, trying to get a fix on his whirling thoughts. At least they could probably still use the evidence he’d picked up before things went downhill. That was good.

He hoped they let him have a nice funeral.

Was that a siren? Interesting.

(Oh, _there_ it was.)

* * *

Everything came rushing back in one hideously awful moment, the noise, the lights and colors suddenly too bright too vivid too-

The pain hit a second later, exploding through his midsection like something eating its way out of his flesh, and as Neal thrashed and jerked and curled into himself trying to escape and gradually realized that he was the one making that awful high pitched noise, he found the time to really, really miss the shock. The world was going to fly apart and he was going to come apart with it, rip into shreds and pieces and strips and just-

Neal blinked and for one blissful wonderful moment everything was gone.

It came back, though, and Diana’s face was hovering over him, and she looked very unhappy. “Neal, _Neal,_ ” she was saying. “Hang on. I need a bus-”

She leaned in a little closer and Neal was about to inform her that she was engaged and also not interested in him, remember? when she abruptly stuck a fork into his guts and twirled it around.

Or that was how it felt, and she seemed to be saying something that was probably important (probably should be listening) but the buzzing in his ears just wouldn’t let him hear. _Sorry,_ he tried to say, and that actually made it out, in a voice that didn’t sound like his. Diana’s face was tight, tense. Desperate.

_It’s okay,_ Neal assured her. _You don’t have to do the paperwork. Peter’ll take care of it._ Which was too bad. Peter had more important things to do than fill out paperwork because Neal’d made a dumb mistake. Maybe he could get one of the probies to do it.

(God, he _hurt._ Couldn’t they just take off his skin and turn it inside out and get it over with?)

“Shut up,” Diana said, brusque as she was when things were going badly. “Stay still, I need to-” She was shrugging off her jacket, and did it again. With the fork and his entrails and everything. _Stop,_ Neal tried to tell her this time, _stop it stop it, I don’t,_ but she was ignoring him.

Figured. Diana did that a lot. Not in a cruel way. He mostly deserved it. Diana wasn’t so bad. He hoped she wouldn’t get in trouble for this.

‘This’ being his unfortunate and imminent demise. Neal found it a little odd, briefly, that he was able to think that so calmly. Maybe shock was coming back. He wished it would take the pain with it. “Focus, Caffrey,” Diana snapped, and he blinked at her and couldn’t work out how to ask _on what?_

_Where’s Peter?_ He asked, instead, groping blindly for her arm to make sure she didn’t wander off without answering him, and Diana was looking over her shoulder and cursing.

“What’s taking so long,” she said, which wasn’t an answer, and then, “He’ll be here in a minute, Caffrey. Okay?”

_Tell him I’m sorry about the paperwork,_ Neal said, because it really seemed terribly important. Peter had to know he didn’t mean to cause more trouble, make more work for him. And he might think that. Might think _Neal, he got shot just to cause me trouble-_

That thought was probably off, a little bit.

Whatever was chewing its way out of him was about to burst free, and he almost wished Diana would stop holding it in with her weight pressed down on his stomach, because it would stop hurting if it just got out, right? He told Diana as much, or thought he did. Definitely said, _it has two heads_ and Diana was yelling something again but the deep dark water was calling him back and Neal’d never been able to say no to a swim.

Diana would just have to let Peter know where he’d gone.

* * *

He was standing in a room empty other than the painting _St. George and the Dragon_ by Raphael hanging on one wall. Neal examined it, wondering what it was doing here when he knew very well exactly where it was, at least probably.

Then St. George paused in his dragon-slaying and turned his head to look at Neal. “Well,” he said, “You’ve really stepped in it this time.”

In Jones’ voice, curiously enough.

“Uh,” said Neal, coherently. St. George looked disdainful. The dragon made an attempt to slither away, and St. George pinned it casually to the ground.

“I don’t know what to do with you,” the saint said, disapprovingly. “You need to start keeping better track of your life. I can’t just go around handing out lives willy-nilly, people will start to think I’m playing favorites.”

Neal smiled charmingly before he could think too much about the fact that he was smiling charmingly at a painting. “I’m your favorite?” St. George looked exasperated, expression oddly like Peter’s. The dragon laughed, a strange, growly sort of noise.

* * *

It wasn’t Diana looking down at him anymore. Someone else, mouth moving very fast, and he was trying to keep up but could only catch about one in ten words. Usually he was better at lip reading than this. Needed Moz. Mozzie was better than anyone.

He might have said that aloud, because someone was leaning in a little too close and saying something that Neal thought amounted to “Mr. Caffrey? Can you hear me?”

_No,_ he mumbled, mostly to be contrary. Definitely sirens. He was moving, and then something jerked and the world went white again. Blank, like the blindness after an explosion. (The sound of Kate’s plane exploding. His back was turned, only saw the wreckage. Not even her face, one last time.) _Peter,_ he tried, not sure where he was going with that.

Nowhere, probably.

“All right, let’s move,” someone said.

_Don’t wanna,_ Neal forced out. _Toeing the line. Can’t pull a heist now, Alex._

“Jesus, Caffrey,” someone said, probably Diana, and someone said something about painkillers. Neal thought he said _yes, please_ but maybe that was just in his head because it was kind of hard to tell the difference right now.

* * *

He was sitting at a table where his feet didn’t reach the floor and swinging his legs back and forth. Elizabeth was making cookies. He could smell them. “Are they almost ready?” he asked, and she looked over her shoulder and smiled at him.

“Not quite yet.”

“Can’t you hurry up?” That from his left, and Neal glanced over and discovered Van Gogh sitting at the counter too. For a moment this struck him as odd. Only for a moment, though.

“Be polite,” Neal scolded. “Elizabeth has a lot to do. And you should always say please.”

Van Gogh frowned at him. “You are an insolent fool and a talentless hack,” he said.

“Well, yes,” Neal agreed. “I know.” Van Gogh seemed appeased. Then he leaned forward, conspiratorially.

“Want to know a secret?”

“Yes,” said Neal eagerly, “I love secrets.”

Van Gogh leaned in closer and blew a raspberry in Neal’s ear, then pulled away, cackling. Elizabeth giggled too, then examined the artist more closely and frowned.

“That won’t do,” she said scoldingly. “You’re asymmetrical, You ought to have cut off a piece of both ears.” She paused. “Or maybe we should all do one?”

“Peter will be terribly upset if you cut off part of your ear,” Neal said.

Wait.

* * *

He couldn’t breathe. There was a twelve ton (estimate) weight on his chest and he couldn’t breathe. That was upsetting. Someone seemed to be trying rather hard to make him do so, though. He hoped they worked it out soon.

“Neal?” Oh, good. It was Peter. “You’re going to be fine, hear me? You’re going to be fine.”

_Don’t let Elizabeth cut off her ear,_ Neal said. He thought he saw Peter’s expression of consternation, but everything was slipping away again, or slipping back, or slipping somewhere, so he added, _St. George said I was his favorite._

He thought Peter would like to know.

* * *

“Really,” Mozzie said, “This just proves that the aliens are already here.”

Neal blinked. “What does?”

Mozzie looked affronted. They were sitting in Versailles, for some reason. Neal had never much cared for Versailles. Little bit too showy. “Don’t you listen to anything that I say?”

“Of course I do,” Neal protested. “I was just busy talking to Peter. I think I might be dying.”

Mozzie sipped his wine. Neal’s wine, that was. And then his own. “Hmm,” he said. “Interesting.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

“Anyway,” Mozzie went on. “I meant the bees. It’s all about the bees.”

“Oh,” said Neal. “I see now. It’s the bees.” Mozzie nodded, sagely.

“Soon they will start replacing us with pod people. We’ll never know the difference.”

Neal looked down and discovered that the dragon from the Raphael was curled up under his feet. He petted it idly with his toes and discovered that it was warm. “We should have tea with Diana sometime. Don’t invite Van Gogh, though. He’s awfully rude.”

“I always said so,” Mozzie said.

“No you didn’t,” Neal protested, and Mozzie sighed.

“Can’t slip anything past you,” he said mournfully, then looked up. “Do you hear something?”

“No,” said Neal, “I don’t

* * *

An empty space that could have been a long time or no time at all, and Neal wouldn’t know. Sitting with Kate on a garden bench telling stories (lies) about the future. Space where he was everything and nothing at the same time and somewhere in between.

* * *

Neal opened his eyes. Peter was asleep in what looked like an incredibly uncomfortable position. He felt decidedly unpleasant. It was dark outside. “Hmm,” Neal said thoughtfully, and played with the idea of getting up and walking out of the room to go and sit outside, but by then the rest of his brain had worked out that he was in a hospital with what seemed like altogether too many monitors beeping at him. Or in his general direction, anyway.

Apparently contemplating dumb ideas made some alarm bell in Peter’s brain go off, because suddenly his eyes were open and he was blinking at Neal for several moments before he was on his feet and reaching for a button somewhere and asking questions all over each other so they all blended together: _how are painkillers thought okay?_

“Peter,” Neal said, and his mouth was definitely full of cotton or something, or maybe that was just his tongue, and it was extremely tempting to cough but he had a feeling that would probably end unpleasantly. Peter was reaching for a cup, though, and Neal opened his mouth like a baby bird and ice chips had never tasted so damn good.

“Do you need a nurse?” Peter asked, and okay, that at least was clear. Though Neal still didn’t know the answer.

He opened his mouth for more ice chips, feeling stupider and more helpless than he had in a long time, but he wanted his voice back. His lack of answer seemed to decide Peter. “I’m calling a nurse,” he said, resolutely, and Neal didn’t quite feel up to arguing with him. Too busy trying to sort out-

He tried to look curious. Peter frowned at him.

“Dammit, Neal,” he said. And then, “Diana’s going to be relieved.”

“Huh?” Neal managed.

“Sometimes I wonder if you’d be _safer_ in prison,” Peter muttered, and then there was a nurse fussing in the room, checking a bunch of numbers and saying something too fast to follow. Neal wished everyone would just talk a little more slowly.

Whatever she injected into one of the lines, though, everything got very floaty very quickly, and it wasn’t that hard to let it go.

* * *

It was El next time. He blinked at her and said something about not inviting Van Gogh next time, to which her eyebrows furrowed and she said, “What?” in the most delicate way possible, and then Neal caught up to himself and remembered that Van Gogh was dead and his feet could definitely reach the floor in the Burke’s kitchen.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” El said, and at least words were making more sense this time, though Neal really wished he could respond more coherently. He settled for smiling at her, and she looked like she was going to cry for some reason, which was not usually the reaction he got.

“Sorry for upsetting you,” he managed, and Elizabeth shook her head and pursed her lips and said,”Worried us _sick,_ ” in a way that made Neal think of mothers except his mother had never spoken to him like that, sometimes she was sweet when she remembered he was there but-

Neal hoped none of that had come out out loud.

“M’indestructible actually,” Neal said, enunciating carefully. Elizabeth smiled a little at that one.

“Don’t go testing it,” she said, sternly.

* * *

Peter really looked rather awful. “They kept saying,” he said, and stopped. Shook his head jerkily. Jabbed a finger at Neal. “You’re damned lucky.”

“I feel damned shot,” Neal said, and Peter glared at him, so Neal added, “Didn’t know they were _armed._ ”

“Mozzie came by,” Peter said, after a moment. “Once. When…”

Neal found his smile, and Peter didn’t look like it made him want to cry, so good, he hadn’t lost his touch. “Aww. You were worried about me?”

Peter’s stare went dead flat and cold. “They told me you had a thirty percent chance.”

Ouch, Neal thought. Thirty. He probably wouldn’t have taken those odds. Not without a very good reason, anyway. He remembered the track of his thoughts (vague, disconnected, decidedly odd) and said lightly, “Lots of paperwork to do if I’d died in the line of duty, huh?”

Neal wasn’t sure if it was the grin or the words that set Peter off, but all of a sudden he was definitely yelling, something about _reckless_ and _bone-headed_ and _not a laughing matter_ and a whole lot of _dammit Neal_ s, and Neal thought he might have kind of sort of checked out, because the next time he was thinking there was a nurse scolding Peter and saying something about _precarious_ and _stitches_ and Neal really needed to learn to read lips if this roaring in his ears wasn’t going to go away.

Good to know that Mozzie would brave a hospital if he thought Neal was going to die, though. You knew your real friends that way.

The nurse was approaching with a syringe, and Neal felt a brief burst of terror, but then he was just relieved. Somsone was rummaging around his insides again and he wished they would stop, but if they wouldn’t at least it could hurt less.

* * *

It was Peter and Elizabeth the next time, talking in low voices. There was sun coming through the window. Neal wondered how many days he was sleeping away. He remembered reading somewhere as a kid that you slept half of your life. That had terrified him, and he’d spent a week trying not to sleep at all.

Hadn’t worked out.

“Hey, Neal,” Elizabeth said, noticing first, and then Peter, and they were both looking at him like they expected something.

Neal swallowed and said, “Water?” Peter went to get it.

Elizabeth reached out and took his hand. “The doctors say you’re on the mend,” she said. “That you’re pretty much out of the woods. How are you feeling?”

“Okay,” Neal said, which was a lie but an easy one that didn’t require any elaboration. It suddenly seemd important to him to know, so he asked, not quite cautiously, “Is Peter sending me back?”

“Back – oh.” Elizabeth leaned back slightly. “No! No. Though I think he’s tempted to lock you in our attic.” She smiled, though it looked a little wan. “An impulse I’m not entirely certain I don’t support.”

“Doesn’t count as work release if I’m not working,” Neal said, and that was when Peter came back with a glass that was more ice than water and said, “Oh, I’d bring you the mortgage fraud case files.”

Neal relaxed, and in doing so realized how tense he’d been. “I’d just go out the window,” he said.

“That’s basically,” Peter said, sitting back down, “What stopped me.” They all looked at each other for a while, and Neal thought about thirty percent chances and funerals and Elizabeth looking like she was going to cry. He wanted to apologize for worrying them and wasn’t sure how without it coming out strange, or insincere, or something. Elizabeth shifted slightly.

“Neal,” she said, abruptly, expression politely curious. “Peter tells me you said something about me cutting off one of my ears?”

It was a good day.

* * *

Mozzie was there when Neal was finally released to limp back to June’s house, on strict rest orders and with what seemed like half his weight in antibiotics. He drank a glass of wine, then another one because Neal couldn’t, and said, “I begin to think you might be right about guns.”

Sleeping in his own bed was strange and slightly uncomfortable, because he had to sleep on his side (one of the bullets went through, a doctor informed him calmly, the other lodged in your liver, and Neal waited until he was gone to throw up the tasteless hospital food) and every twitch woke him unless he took painkillers, which left him feeling muzzy in the mornings. He drifted off eventually, though.

The dragon and St. George were both on the horse this time. “We’re going for tea,” the dragon said, in its rumbly voice. “And talking about our problems.”

“Here’s another one,” said St. George, still sounding oddly like Jones. “Don’t waste it like you have been, okay?”

He woke up. It was still dark outside, and Mozzie was snoring out in the living room, and the world was full of possibilities.

Maybe tomorrow, if he could stand for long enough, he’d paint something real.


End file.
